


A Dovahkiin’s Job is Never Done

by Ambitious_Rubbish



Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: F/F, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-28
Updated: 2020-09-29
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:21:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26706652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ambitious_Rubbish/pseuds/Ambitious_Rubbish
Summary: Sidra Ardin has had something of a storied career. Ex-Legionnaire. The Dragonborn of Nord legend. She’s taken down all manner of beasts, great and small. Alduin, the World Eater himself, is a notch on the hilt of her sword.And after all that, she embarked on the greatest adventure of them all.She got married.Now, her most recent triumph? Brokering a peace between the two most powerful and influential factions in Skyrim – factions that had been murdering each other in job lots for months.After all this, a girl might be forgiven for thinking her role in shaping history was done. That she’d earned a rest – an opportunity to retire to somewhere nice and quiet, and live out the rest of her life in peace.Except, it seems, there’s one thing yet left to do.And it involves dresses.Dresses withruffles.Proof that the Divines have no understanding whatsoever of the concept of mercy.
Relationships: Female Dovahkiin | Dragonborn/Ysolda
Kudos: 7





	1. Chapter 1

Ysolda giggled.

She wasn’t doing so to be cruel, it was just that she couldn’t help herself. In all the time she’d known her, she’d never seen Lydia looking so… uncomfortable. And that was including the time she’d been mildly gored by a runaway mammoth. Come to think of it, she’d almost looked like she was having a good time as Danica gingerly pulled a chunk of broken tusk out of her shoulder. And even when the wound had started fountaining blood like a Dwemer water feature run amok, Lydia hadn’t so much as batted an eye.

*That is going to leave such a good scar,* she’d said.

But now she was frowning. Glowering, really. And the reason for that was obvious.

“You really do clean up nicely.”

“Sarcasm is unbecoming, Ysolda.”

“I’m not being sarcastic!” Ysolda protested. “If Sidra were here, _Sidra_ would be sarcastic. But I actually think you look cute.”

Lydia suddenly rocked backwards on her heels as if she’d been physically struck across the face. She stabbed an impertinent forefinger into the redhead’s chest. “You take that back.”

But she didn’t. Instead, she pressed on as earnestly as possible. “What? It’s a lovely dress. I really think the green suits you.”

But no compliment, no matter how seriously it was meant, could soothe Lydia’s roaring temper at this point. “I can’t believe she did this to me,” the brunette groused. “If I were not sworn to your beloved’s service, she would be going home this evening with just her head in the back of the wagon.”

The merchant pouted. She was fairly certain that Lydia was just talking, (Or ranting, as the case might be,) but threats of decapitation had to be taken seriously – as seriously as any words coming out of Lydia’s mouth could ever be, at any rate.

It was at this point that the dour-looking Dunmer standing just a couple of strides’ length away from them shrugged and sighed. She fixed a look upon Lydia that was mildly chastising, but not completely without sympathy. “Your duties are many, Housecarl. Unfortunately, this is but one of them.”

To Ysolda’s eyes, the Dunmer woman looked no more comfortable than her Nord counterpart. But that was no reason to give up hope. Perhaps she’d have better luck with the diplomatic approach this time. “Lady Irileth, you’re looking rather fashionable yourself.”

That statement earned her a snort of utter dissatisfaction. “Corsetry is a tool of Molag Bal.”

Well, then. This was a conversation that was clearly going nowhere. The redhead searched desperately for a reason to excuse herself. “I think I’m going to get some more wine.”

Lydia’s hawk-eyed gaze drifted down to the delicate glass in Ysolda’s hands. A glass that was still obviously half-filled with a vividly red liquid.

Ysolda quickly noticed where Lydia’s attention had drifted to, and immediately raised the rim of the glass to her lips. She threw her head back and poured the entirety of the glass’ remaining contents down her gullet. The hasty, impetuous act engendered a bit of awkward coughing, followed by a “demurely” muffled belch into her napkin.

It took her a few moments to gather enough of her composure together to speak, by which time, the other two women were staring – perhaps even _glaring_ – at her intently. Her cheeks flushed a bright shade of crimson. “Would you like me to get you something? Either of you?”

Lydia suppressed the snarl that was threatening to rise from the back of her throat, managing to reduce it from something that might have come from a bloodthirsty sabre cat, to something that sounded vaguely like a _housecat_ choking on a hairball. She let the noise hang in the air for a pregnant second or two, before slowly and deliberately clearing her throat. “Yes. If you’d be so kind as to find my wayward Thane, so that we could perhaps depart this wretched cesspit sooner, as opposed to later? That would be excellent.”

In an exceedingly rare display for Irileth, the Dunmer woman made a strangled-sounding noise that could almost be mistaken for a snicker. She quickly held a napkin to her lips to stifle it.

Ysolda knew – or, at least, she very much hoped – that Lydia wasn’t actually angry with her. But it was clear that she _was_ angry. Angry enough, perhaps, to lash out at the nearest convenient target that presented itself. Ysolda very much wanted to avoid becoming that target. Her eyes darted to the side, to where she’d last seen Sidra what seemed like several long years ago, but in reality had probably only been a few minutes. “I… I believe she’s still talking with the Jarl over by the canapes,” she said, trying to keep her voice steady even though her insides were starting to quail just a little. “But… um… well, I’ll head over there and see what I can do.”

“You do that,” Lydia hissed through tightly clenched teeth.


	2. Chapter 2

Ysolda had been right. Sidra was indeed still embroiled in one of those polite but ultimately meaningless conversations that one was expected to participate in at these kinds of functions. Now, diplomacy had never particularly been one of Sidra’s strengths. She was a soldier. Most of her adult life had been spent either in battle, or training for it. But being the prophesied Dovahkiin meant walking a path laden with potential pitfalls, and these were dangers that could not be vanquished by sword or magic. She’d had to branch out a bit since her arrival in Skyrim. She’d had to learn new skills, rely upon not just physical strength, but mental fortitude as well. And she’d had to develop a silvered tongue. Sidra might not ever be entirely _comfortable_ in situations such as these, but all things considered, she was holding up quite well. Still, it seemed obvious to the redheaded merchant that her beloved would appreciate a rescue. Immediately.

And so she sidled up behind her and gently put a hand on her shoulder, then gingerly leaned in and kissed her softly on the cheek. “Hello, my love.”

The Imperial turned to face her, and her eyes brightened. “Hello, yourself. You-” Her eyes wandered for several embarrassing moments before she suddenly realized what they were doing. She snapped her gaze back up to the redhead’s face and smiled sheepishly. “You look absolutely stunning.”

And she did, if she could say so herself. The dress had been special-made. Sidra had insisted, going so far as to pay a small fortune to commission one of Solitude’s finest clothiers (not the bitchy Altmer one, the other one) to do the work. But Ysolda, while she appreciated the sentiment behind such an ostentatious gift, appreciated the _cost_ behind it even more.

The two of them were what Ysolda would call “comfortably” wealthy. Not embarrassingly rich, but hardly paupers, either. Sidra was a successful adventurer. The spoils she’d accumulated during her numerous expeditions had made for a sizable nest egg, one that Ysolda had then parlayed into a fairly impressive sum. There might never be a sprawling mansion in Whiterun’s Cloud District in their future, but that wasn’t something either of them truly wanted, anyway.

The point, however, was that while they could afford such luxuries, Ysolda always felt hesitant to indulge. Much of what they had was due to her skill in managing their finances, but she never allowed herself to forget that the initial capital for all her investments had been hard won by her wife’s blood and sweat. And this little bit of… frippery… though she couldn’t deny that it made her feel like the most beautiful woman in the entire room – it still seemed to her like such a waste.

Really, the only reason she’d relented on the issue was because… well, because of things like the way Sidra was looking at her right now.

The Imperial was making absolutely no effort to hide the joy on her face. Her smile threatened to tear her face in two, and her eyes practically danced with delight. The adoration she felt for her redheaded paramour was plain to see, and yes, there was more than a hint of lust there as well. As strongly as Ysolda might have felt about the subject, it was terribly hard to argue when the woman she loved looked at her that way. Harder still to argue with Sidra’s assertions that if they were going to be attending a party in her honor, she would categorically require her spouse to be there next to her, and dressed in the grandest finery money could buy.

In all honesty, Ysolda considered Sidra’s logic to be far from impeccable. After all, to spend so much on something she would likely wear but once – no matter the importance of said event – just seemed… frivolous. But then again, wasn’t that the whole point of these kinds of gatherings in the first place? Frivolity? And at any rate, she was, under no circumstances, going to gainsay Sidra on a day like this one. To see her honored properly for her ceaseless efforts to bring peace to Skyrim? That was worth any amount of gold.

As was the opportunity to see her dear Sidra in something other than tattered leathers or a cumbersome hauberk. She had been a soldier all her life, but she was also still a woman. Very much so. And she cut an exceedingly fine figure in that elegant red gown. “So do you. But I’m sorry to interrupt.” She bowed deeply to the woman Sidra had been conversing with. “Your Majesty.”

There was a reason the woman in question was known as “Elisif the Fair,” and she smiled graciously at the courtly gesture. “Not yet,” she said with a mirthful little chuckle. “But soon, with any luck.” She turned to Sidra, who, if she didn’t know any better, might have sworn the Jarl of Haafingar Hold had just winked at her. “At any rate, I’m sure whatever matter demands your attention is quite important, Dragonborn. We can always speak more later. If you’ll excuse me.”

Sidra watched, bewildered, as the Jarl – with all the bewitching grace of someone of her station – cut their conversation short and walked away to mingle with the other guests. It might have been the result she wanted, but she still had a hard time believing her luck. She mused about this for all of a second until Ysolda recaptured her attention by gently squeezing her hand. Returning to her senses, she snapped her eyes back to her wife’s face, finding it graced by a pretty, if brittle, smile. “Oh, right. Um… is there some kind of problem?”

Ysolda wavered briefly and shrugged. “ ‘Problem’ may be overstating it somewhat, but I felt I should tell you that your… uh… retinue is starting to grow just a touch restless?” 

Sidra frowned. “My… retinue? You mean you and Lydia?”

“Just so.”

The Imperial began steering them towards a relatively unoccupied corner of the room where their conversation wasn’t likely to be overheard. “Is she chafing at having to play nice in front of all these esteemed personages?”

“Something like that,” the redhead replied. She chuckled demurely. “I believe Lydia is this close-” she held her thumb and forefinger a very short distance apart, “to losing her mind.”

“That would suggest it hadn’t already abandoned her years ago,” Sidra said with a mild roll of the eyes. “But why is she so upset? I told her she could get as drunk as she liked as long as she didn’t start punching people in the face...” Her voice trailed off. She blinked, and then her brow furrowed as her mouth morphed into a thin, flat crease. “Has… has she started punching people in the face?”

Ysolda could only chuckle again. “Not yet, but that may change relatively soon.”

“Well, how much has she had to drink?”

“Oh, no, that’s not it. Drinking too much isn’t the issue. It’s just the opposite, actually.” She held up her wineglass. “All they have here is this… swill.”

“That’s a Lerinia Vineyards ‘48 Red. It’s one of their finest vintages.”

“She said it was ‘like someone had put a single grape in their mouth, chewed it once, spit into a river, then bottled the liquid and had the nerve to call it wine.’ ”

Sidra’s eyes went wide. “Lydia’s metaphors remain as subtle as ever.” She shook her head. “I… I feel like I should be insulted on behalf of all Imperial winemakers everywhere.”

“Her words, not mine, dear.”

“I know, it’s just-” She cut herself off as Ysolda emptied her glass in one long pull. “How many of those have _you_ had?”

She shrugged. “A few.” She smiled wanly. “It’s really some rather thin stuff.”

“I thought you said you didn’t agree with Lydia’s assessment of Imperial wines.”

“No, I said that those were ‘her words.’ I said nothing about disagreeing with them.”

No matter how long she spent in Skyrim, it seemed that actually comprehending how the mind of a Nord operated – even if it was her own wife – would remain forever beyond Sidra’s grasp. She threw Ysolda an exasperated look. Her shoulders slumped, and she let out a tortured, long-suffering sigh. “Now I _am_ starting to feel insulted.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Well, since you’ve brought it up, I would like to mention that it’s a delicate wine. It’s not meant to be… guzzled.”

In the time it took for the conversation to progress that far, Ysolda had already flagged down a server and gotten herself another glass of the sparkling red liquid. One long gulp later, and there was nothing left but dregs swirling around the bottom of her wineglass. “Where’s the fun in that, then? If I were to sip this, I’d be dead of old age before I started to feel anything.”

That touched off a brief fit of astonished and angry sputtering. “This… this isn’t the same as tossing back ales at the Mare! You’re supposed to take your time, savor the wine as it rolls over your tongue, relish the secondary and tertiary notes of flavor as-”

“Sounds boring.”

Sidra stared at her, aghast. “Boring?!” She fought to keep her voice under control. “I… no, I’ve decided: I _am_ insulted on behalf of all Imperial winemakers everywhere.”

Ysolda laughed brightly and kissed her affectionately on the cheek. “I’m sorry. I am an uncouth barbarian, aren’t I?” She smirked wickedly. “Of course, you do like that about me.”

And now the Imperial was blushing. “… maybe.”

Ysolda laughed again, reaching out so she could _just_ brush her fingers against Sidra’s forearm in exactly the way she liked, and was rewarded with a tiny, almost imperceptible shiver. “Well, if you feel the need, you can suitably… chastise… me about my ignorance of the finer points of the winemaking process. But later. For right now, you should probably talk to Lydia and keep her from launching herself on a sobriety-fueled, fist-swinging rampage. I tend to think that sort of thing might just irrevocably damage the peace process.”

“It might, but at the same time? There’s more than a few people in this room that could use a good punch.”


	3. Chapter 3

Lydia’s last known whereabouts were somewhere over by the buffet table, but by the time the two of them got there, she was in the middle of punching a High Elf in the face.

In all fairness, the man was some foppish Thalmor blowhard, unable to stop sneering down his overly elongated nose at everyone for more than a second at a time, and again, in all fairness, he probably deserved to have one or two of those impossibly white teeth knocked out of his smugly grinning face. Nevertheless, as she saw Lydia’s arm rear back, Sidra could only muse how it seemed like she was living some kind of strange, storybook existence. Time seemed to slow around her, just like it did in all those stories, and she even found herself crying out “Nooooooooo!” though, of course, it was all in vain.

She buried her face into the palm of her hand as Lydia’s fist struck home with a meaty *Thwack!*

Dibella’s left nipple. And things had been going so well, too.

All conversation in the room ceased immediately, causing an eerie silence to descend over the entire hall. “This is going to be catastrophic...” Sidra whispered to Ysolda, who was standing next to her, wringing her hands in consternation. “I think… I think you’d better find somewhere safe to hide for the next few moments.”

Though not completely unused to random outbursts of violence – she was a Nord, after all, it was in the blood – the merchant immediately recognized the wisdom of her wife’s suggestion. She nodded and began shuffling (the dress might have been gorgeous, but it was also horrendously impractical, especially when it came to things like running) to the relative safety of the far end of the banquet table. She lifted the tablecloth and ducked underneath just as the assembled party guests all recovered their wits and began to react to the extreme effrontery that they had all just witnessed.

The entire room began to erupt into chaos. So many shouts of frustration and rage echoed about the chamber, that they sounded like the roar of a single, furious monster about to unleash untold devastation upon a helpless village. Tables were overturned. Chairs started flying. Glasses and silverware, too. Some of the guests were already down, hit by flying debris, or tackled to the floor by other outraged partygoers.

Sidra caught one last glimpse of Ysolda right before the descending tablecloth hid her from view. She mouthed the words over the growing din.

“I love you.”


	4. Chapter 4

Like many battles tended to be, the whole thing was over in minutes.

It had been fierce, brutish, and short.

The banquet hall was a ruin. Banners had been torn down. Paintings and tapestries ripped to shreds. The carpet forever soiled. In a corner, a servant let out an agonizing wail as he cradled the shattered remnants of a marble bust in his hands.

The guests themselves were hardly in better shape.

Gone was the furious roar that had united the crowd in anger and spurred it to violence. It had been replaced by a low, eerie moan – the groans of the wounded as they called to their comrades for help.

“Well, thank you for that, Lydia,” Sidra growled as she clutched feebly at the tattered remnants of her dress, trying mostly in vain to hold it together with one hand. “My dress is ruined.”

Lydia shrugged as if it were no consequence. “You hate that dress.”

That was only partly true. At the moment, it was the only thing standing between her and exposing her rather brief underclothes to all assembled. And it had been _frightfully_ expensive. “I was starting to get used to it. And it made me feel pretty.” She let out a noisy, exhausted sigh, attempting to blow a lock of hair that had been matted to her forehead with a glob of smashed honeyed yams, out of her eyes. She was unsuccessful.

Lydia snorted derisively. “You were ‘getting used to it’ the same way I ‘got used to’ those bandits that held me prisoner for two days.”

“That was your own fault. I told you I was going for supplies and not to go in there without me.”

“It was a half dozen bandits making camp in a small cave. We handle that sort of thing all the time.”

“So you bumbling into one of their sentries, getting clonked on the head and ending up their hostage for a day and a half, that’s ‘handling’ it?”

The Nord shrugged easily as she tore a strip of cloth off of her skirts. She handed the fabric to a young woman whose nose had been bloodied when she’d taken a tankard to the face. “I knew you’d be back for me. And when you came storming through that cave like Talos himself to come to my rescue, well, I was positively swooning at your heroism.”

“Oh, shush. Now you’re just making fun of me.”

“Only a little.”

“You know, you’re bleeding.”

Lydia looked down at herself, at the crimson splotches now staining the front of her dress. She shrugged. “Eh, it’s not mine. It’s probably from when I punched that pompous ass in his stupid face.”

“Ah, yes, about that. I was meaning to ask you: what in the _hells_ were you thinking?! You broke that man’s nose!”

“He pinched my ass.” As if that justified everything.

“And? It’s not like it’s the first time that’s ever happened to you.”

“Yes, but I made an exception for you because I thought you were cute, and you weren’t married then.”

“… **Lydia.** ”

The brunette laughed heartily. “Sorry. Honestly, I probably would’ve let the whole thing go with just a warning, but then he started leering at me, telling me he wanted to bend me over that table there, and-”

Sidra felt a sudden wall of pain erupting from behind her eyes. She pinched the bridge of her nose to try to make it stop, but of course, it didn’t. “Ok, ok, ok. But still! Are you trying to tell me that’s sufficient reason to ruin the peace we’ve been working towards for all these months?”

And now it was the Nord’s turn to look baffled. She cocked her head to the side, spearing her Thane with a scrutinizing look. “What are you talking about?”

Sidra’s jaw dropped. “Is this the part where you tell me it’s traditional ‘Nord diplomacy’ to conclude a successful peace summit by having a rampaging brawl with the people you’re supposedly trying to make peace with?”

“Well, it’s usually wrestling naked in the snow, but-”

“ **Lydia!** ”

“I’m serious!” she said, holding her hands up to try and placate the irate Sidra. “You know us Nords. We’re a… fiery, passionate people.”

“ ‘Passionate.’ That’s the word we’re going with, huh? Ok.”

Lydia ignored the little outburst. “I’m just saying, this sort of thing was bound to happen, and it’s good that it did. It gave everyone the opportunity to get it out of their system.”

“Lydia, ‘getting it out of their system’ was what the whole bloody _war_ was for. This was supposed to be a nice, quiet state function. Some food, some drink, celebrate the end of the war.”

“And celebrate your part in ending it?”

“Is it wrong to want a little recognition? I ended the threat of Alduin, the World Eater, and nobody says a damned thing to me. Balgruuf sends me a fruit basket, and that’s it. And you even ate all the pears!”

“They were just so tasty...”

“Lydia, focus, please? Your whole ‘this is just people getting it out of their systems’ resulted in a lot of blood getting let out of people’s systems.”

“Yes, but… they have more.”

“And the broken ribs?”

“… ribs grow back.”

Sidra suddenly felt impossibly wearily. She collapsed into the nearest chair. “They really don’t.”


End file.
